


Drowning Man

by Still_beating_heart



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Ian Gallagher, Botched bipolar treatment, Heavy and weird, I always end it on a light note, M/M, Mentions of Sex, Mentions of Suicide, Mentions of Violence, ends on a light note, it's Gallavich so enter at your own risk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-15 20:21:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 11,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17535593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_beating_heart/pseuds/Still_beating_heart
Summary: This is kind of dark and weird.  I wrote it after about three weeks of cold, grey, cloudy, snowy weather over the holidays and after the holidays.  And the seasonal depression shows.  There is a light at the end of the tunnel, you just have to sort through some heavy shit first.This is a what if Ian had tried an experimental treatment for his bipolar disorder that left him functioning at a childlike level, lost of memories.  Would Mickey hang around?  Would his family take care of him?  Would love be able to keep him from drowning?-----And it didn’t fucking matter anyway because the only time he felt like anything ever fucking mattered was when Ian smiled at him. His real smile. His real fucking smile. It was cheesy and made him look like a child, but it was real. And it was beautiful. And it made Mickey feel helpless but hopeful. It made him feel grounded but soaring, beautiful but wretched. It made him think that everything was worth it. Everything was worth it.------





	1. Milk Money

Milk Money

She said a gallon. She said it like four fucking times. But Mickey doesn’t have enough for a gallon. He only has enough for a half gallon. Which really pisses him off because now he’s paying more per ounce for the same fucking thing only because it comes in a smaller container. Fuck. Maybe if he had two fucking nickels to rub together, he’s never had two nickels to rub together. Even now. Even when he’s working an honest job. Paying taxes and social security and all that fucking shit that comes with punching a fucking time clock.

He grabs the half gallon and stalks over to the counter. Nobody’s there. He rings the bell. A thud sounds from the storage room and a hurried redhead with a dopey smile on his face appears, all apologetic and shy, “sorry. Didn’t hear the door when you came in,” he’s wiping his hands on his smock. There’s peanut butter crusted under his fingernails. His fingers move slowly as he thunks the keys on the register. That fucking awful sound of the paper reel, the ink, the high pitched fucking squeal that has always bothered Mickey. Ever since he worked here. Fuck, that was a lifetime ago, “$1.68 please.”

He hands over his two bucks and waits. Patience. Patience. The kid is not who he used to be. Patience. It takes patience. Mickey takes a deep breath. Waiting while he painstakingly counts out the $.32 from the drawer. Then to himself. Then to Mickey’s waiting palm. 

He hesitates on the pennies. Two fucking pennies. He wants to put them in the dish. But Mickey earned his fucking pennies. He needs those fucking pennies. Everyone in this shit-stained neighborhood needs their fucking pennies. That’s why the dish is always fucking empty. Always.

When his green eyes rise, all wide and concerned, finally landing on Mickey’s, he wonders, “Mickey?”

“Yeah Ian,” forcing a fake smile. Forcing a fake fucking smile that he hates. He hates it. He hates it to his very core and even further. He fucking hates this. 

“You know my name?”

“‘Course I do. Who’s walking you home tonight?”

Eyes like saucers staying on Mickey’s face for a long moment. There’s no trace of the guy Mickey used to know behind those eyes. Some days aren’t like this. Some days aren’t like this. This. This blank stare. This blank space. 

“Ian? Who’s walking you home tonight? When your shift is over.”

“Mom. Mom is. She always does,” that fucking stupid dopey smile rises again. The one he used to wear when he said something that he knew was fucking stupid and dopey, but it was meant to be fucking stupid and dopey. And now it’s just, it’s just his smile. It’s just his stupid dopey fucking smile all the time now. 

Mickey should have been there. He should have been there. Because he never would have let him sign those papers. He never would have let him sign those fucking papers. And Mickey wants to burn those fucking papers. And he wants to strap that fucking doctor to a chair and give him a dose of his own shock therapy. And he wants to smash every piece of equipment in his office, and every fucking window. He wants to take a sledge hammer to every wall, every door. He wants to splash a trail of gasoline, and torch it. He wants to watch it burn with that fucking doctor still inside.

But Mickey wasn’t there. He wasn’t there when Ian signed those papers. Because Ian didn’t want Mickey anymore. He didn’t want him. Ian didn’t want him.

And Mickey pretended it didn’t hurt. Mickey pretended that it was okay. And he pretended that he could just live his life. Live his life the way his dad had decided he would live it. Live his life with a wife that hated him and a child he could barely look at. Work a back-breaking job that paid the bills because it paid the bills. And because Mickey would swing a fucking sledge hammer all fucking day until his body was breaking and his head was spinning and his hands were so raw he couldn’t even stand the thought of jerking himself off. And it didn’t fucking matter anyway because the only time he felt like anything ever fucking mattered was when Ian smiled at him. His real smile. His real fucking smile. It was cheesy and made him look like a child, but it was real. And it was beautiful. And it made Mickey feel helpless but hopeful. It made him feel grounded but soaring, beautiful but wretched. It made him think that everything was worth it. Everything was worth it.

But Mickey wasn’t fucking there. Mickey wasn’t there because Monica had convinced Ian that he was broken. That he was broken and everyone around him just wanted to fix him. Even Mickey. Like it broke his heart to look at him. But it wasn’t fucking true. Ian wasn’t broken. Sure, he flitted around like a fucking bird sometimes, like he was going to burst out of his skin and the only way to stay in it was to keep moving. Sure, he spoke too many words and had too many ideas and no way to reign them in. Sure, he spent a month in bed once. And his body hurt and his head hurt and he wouldn’t eat and he wouldn’t drink and he wouldn’t bathe. Fuck. That didn’t mean he was broken. That didn’t mean he needed to be fixed. That didn’t mean he was a different fucking person. That didn’t mean it broke Mickey’s heart.

And his dead stare, lifeless eyes. The breath leaving his mouth a fine mist in the cold winter’s air. He was shivering with no jacket on. And he was numb. And he was afraid. And he was too much and too little. But he was Ian. And Mickey loved Ian. And yeah, Mickey wanted to go down to the courthouse in tuxes like a couple of old queens. He wanted to marry Ian. He loved Ian. He wanted to marry Ian. He wanted to be there through thick and thin, sickness and health, all that shit. He wanted to be with him. Because he loved Ian. And Ian didn’t love Mickey. He didn’t want Mickey. Maybe he never had. So Mickey walked home. Hands jammed in his pockets. Fists so tight he had crescents dug into his palms. He walked home and he stood at the base of the porch steps. And he stared at the door. And he had two fucking choices. Two of them. Go in, play house with a fucking Russian whore who hated him. And he hated her. And he hated their son. He hated the look of him, and the feel of him, and the smell of him. He hated the reminder of that day. The constant fucking reminder of that day. He hated the house. And all the memories in it. As far back as he could remember. He hated the day his mom died. And he hated the day his father punched him in the mouth for the first time. And he hated the day his oldest brother pushed him down the porch steps and he broke his wrist. And he hated the day Mandy sat at the kitchen table with tears in her eyes after he watched their father leave her bedroom that morning. And he hated the way she was dead inside after that. And he hated the way he was dead inside. And helpless to it. To all of it.

But he hated most of all the memory of Ian. Of Ian sitting on the couch, sharing a cigarette, sipping beers and watching movies. Eating pizza rolls and debating the merits of Van Damme over Segal. And he hated the way he looked at him. Like nothing else in this world mattered. And it didn’t. For that night it didn’t. And the next morning. How he had gotten careless. He had let his guard down. He had turned around, even though his asscheek still hurt, and he had let Ian push inside of him. And he had felt it. He had felt every single part of Ian and Ian had felt every single part of Mickey. And nothing else fucking mattered. Because every happiness that Mickey had ever imagined in this world was happening. It was happening. And he couldn’t breathe and he couldn’t think. All he could do was feel. And he felt. He felt too much and not enough and everything and nothing. And then the door opened. 

And his life came rushing back at him. All at once. In a frenzy of fists and blood and shouts. His life. Just his life. The way it had always been. And the way it would always be. Just fists and blood and shouts. And he hated his father for it. And he hated the whore for it. And he hated Ian for it. But most of all he hated himself for it. 

Or he could turn around. He could walk back down the street. And he could tell Ian the way he truly felt. Like the world was bleak and dreary. Like it was damp and cold. Like everything in his life was nothing. Except Ian. 

But Ian didn’t want him anymore. He didn’t want him anymore. And Mickey couldn’t fucking blame him for that. No one ever wanted Mickey. Why would Ian be any different?

“Can I see your schedule?” holding his hand out, palm up on the counter between them.

“Schedule?”

“Yeah. Your work schedule.”

“Why?”

“So I can see who’s day it is.”

“It’s Mom’s,” he giggles, “I told you that,” but he reaches to the bulletin board and hands it over. Monica’s fucking dead. But Mickey won’t remind him of that. That’s not part of his job. His job is to walk Ian home on Tuesdays and Thursdays. His job is to get him inside the door of the Gallagher house. His job is to turn around and leave. And pretend that it doesn’t hurt. That it doesn’t burn his flesh. Tear at his heart. Claw at his bones. Pretend that it doesn’t hurt. That’s all.

Debbie. It’s Debbie’s night. Pink highlighted Wednesday. Pink is Debbie. Green is Carl. Blue is Mickey. Yellow is Fiona.  
When Mickey hands it back he has to pretend he didn’t notice. He didn’t see. The scars. The scars on his wrists. 

He wasn’t there. And he has to pretend he didn’t see them. He has to pretend he doesn’t see them. Because if he does, if he sees them, it’ll kill him. 

He wasn’t there. He wasn’t there. Because Ian didn’t want him. And Ian didn’t want himself. And Ian let them convince him he needed to be fixed. That he was broken. And he needed to be fixed. 

“Alright Ian,” he sighs, separating his two pennies from the quarter and the nickel, “you want my two cents?” plopping them in the dish.

“You’re funny Mickey,” that stupid fucking dopey ass smile rising. 

But this time Mickey smiles back and it’s sort of real, “I’m a laugh a minute Ian. See you tomorrow.”

And he pretends it doesn’t hurt.


	2. Porcelain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porcelain

“Where’s Mom?” he shrugs into his jacket as his eyes land on Debbie’s.

“Where she always is Ian,” she responds. The same way she always responds, “come on. Let’s go.”

“It smells like Fall.”

“It does,” she agrees as she watches him lock the door to the Kash N Grab. He locks it. Then pulls on it. Then wipes his hand on his pants. Pulls it again. Wipes. Pulls. Wipes. Nods at her.

“Where’s Mom?”

“Where she always is.”

“Oh, at church?”

“Sure Ian.”

His slimy hand is snaking into Debbie’s and it makes her skin crawl. But, “Mom says we have to hold hands to cross the street,” and she holds it. He’s her brother. He always will be. No matter what that doctor did to him. If he had asked her, if he had talked to her about it, she would have told him not to. Not to try something so dangerous as shocking his brain into a seizure just to see if it would stabilize his moods. Not to do it over and over again. Not to voluntarily commit himself to three weeks worth of experimental treatments. 

He didn’t ask her. She can’t hate him for it. But she can’t stand being around him. It takes more effort and patience to be around him than it does a toddler. At least toddlers are supposed to ask stupid annoying questions. Ian is a grown man. Or was.   
She looks over at him. A little boy stuck in a grown man’s body. She keeps hoping he’ll wake up some day, and he’ll be Ian again. Even if it was the Ian that was singing in the kitchen and talking faster than the words coming out of his mouth. Even if it was the Ian that was huddled into Mickey’s bed unmoving for days. 

They don’t talk about it. They don’t remind him of all the scary things he did. They don’t remind him of all the ways he used to be. Even before the diagnosis. Reminding him will only hurt him. That’s Fiona’s rule. And that stupid doctor’s rule. Don’t push him, don’t remind him. It will only set him back. 

But what Fiona, Lip, and the quack don’t know…

“Is that Mickey?” Ian wonders, sitting on the edge of his bed. 

“Yep,” Debbie hands over the print of the two of them. She’s the one who took the photo. They weren’t even doing anything interesting. It was just the way they were looking at each other. Debbie snapped it through her cracked door. The way Mickey always looked at Ian. Like he was the sun and Mickey’s entire world revolved around him. It was the way that Debbie always wished a boy would look at her. And Ian was too damn blind to see it even though it was always there. 

He hunches down a little, turning his head towards Debbie, leaning into her ear, “why is he looking at me like that?”

Her gaze lands on his wide green eyes, telling him certainly, “because he loves you.”

And because his love for you is the only thing that can bring you back. Debbie is as certain of this as she is of breathing. It doesn’t matter if the memories hurt, it doesn’t matter if the love hurts. It is the only thing that can remove the fog from Ian’s brain. It is the only thing that can make him see himself again, the way Mickey always saw him. Like he was perfect. And even when life hurt like a dagger to the heart, it was still worth living as long as they were together. 

His eyes narrow for a moment before a childish smile overtakes his features and he laughs, “you’re funny Debbie.”

She sees Carl’s face from across the room, peering over the edge of the bunk. She makes eye contact and he shrugs. Carl and Debbie never thought Ian was Monica. Fiona always just said they were too young to remember Monica well enough, they didn’t see it yet. They were still too hopeful that Ian would face down his problems without hurting everyone around him. And Fiona signed those stupid papers. As his guardian, she signed him out of the institution. Signed him out drooling on himself and dragging his feet. And now she says they have to treat him like he’s porcelain. 

Fuck that, “you remember Mickey?”

He nods, “he bought milk today. He gave me his two cents,” giggling into his hand.

Mickey gave you a hell of a lot more than two cents, Debbie sighs, “yes Ian. You two used to live together.”

“When?” furrowed brow, confusion clouding his eyes.

“Before,” she nods. She keeps hoping, every time they do this, that something will jar him. Something will make him remember. Make him realize that he’s not a child anymore. If looking at his own body, his own face in the mirror doesn’t do the trick; something has to. She won’t narrate it for him, he has to find it on his own. 

He just looks so fucking confused. She pats his knee, “alright. You brush your teeth?”

He nods, opening his mouth to show her.

“Okay. Get some sleep then,” she leans in, kissing his stubbled cheek, “good night Ian.”


	3. Mountain Of Shit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mountain Of Shit

He’s hammered. It’s payday. And Mickey decided to say fuck it. Fuck it to groceries and the heat bill, and the water bill. And new shoes for the kid he hates. And fuck it to his fucking wife and all her demands. 

Just fuck it.

But the one thing he can’t just say fuck it about is that stupid redhead locking up the store. While Mickey sways even standing still. Fuck. 

Lock, check. Lock, check. Lock, check. Nod. 

Fuck.

His fucking slimy ass hand slipping into Mickey’s at the corner. And Mickey pretends it doesn’t burn. It doesn’t pound a stake into his chest. 

Fuck.

He never held Ian’s hand. Never once. Sometimes he would find Ian’s wrapped around his wrist in the morning. But he never held Ian’s hand. Fuck. He should have just held his fucking hand. He should have kissed it. And kissed his wrist. And his neck. And his face. And his mouth. He should have kissed every single goddamned inch of him. Every single chance he got. That was what he wanted wasn’t it? All that fucking mushy crap that comes with relationships. All the ‘I love you’s and ‘I need you’s. And the fucking hand holding. 

And now he’s holding his fucking hand. Walking down the sidewalk in the Southside holding Ian Gallagher’s hand. The way a child holds their parent’s hand. The way siblings hold each other’s hands. Not that Mickey knew how any of that felt. The one and only time Mandy had ever held his hand was when they found that dead bum under the L. Mickey was six. It was the first of many times they’d see dead bodies. 

Fuck.

He stumbles over a curb and Ian’s hand tightens, holding him steady with a laugh, “Mom always says we have to hold each other’s hands. I guess she’s right.”

If Monica ever fucking said that it was only because it’d be harder for someone to kidnap all six of the Gallagher twits if they were roped together. Mickey’s certain if anyone ever did kidnap any of them, they’d return them as soon as possible once they started talking. Fuckin’ Gallaghers. All of ‘em. 

“Mickey?”

“Ian.”

“Um, Debbie said we used to be friends.”

“We are friends,” he lies. He can’t stand the sight of him. He can’t stand the sight of him because he’s still in the body of the man that Mickey loved. He’s still in the body that could do so much, and did so much to Mickey that no one else ever scratched the surface of. And sometimes when Mickey looks at him, he still sees him. He sees him in those moments. The ones only shared between the two of them. The private looks, the heated naked flesh, the warm embraces. The whole fucking thing. He sees the whole fucking thing. But then he looks into his eyes. And his eyes are not Ian’s. Where once so much life flared it was impossible to put it out. Now it’s only darkness. 

“Are we?”

“Why the fuck else would I be holding your fucking hand, walking you home from work, making sure you get there safely?” he can’t bite back his temper.

The startled expression that takes over Ian’s innocent face is enough to make Mickey want to punch something. Anything. Even Ian’s innocent fucking face. His hand goes lax in Mickey’s and his mouth opens for a moment like he’s going to say something. Then it clamps shut and he looks ahead of them. Silently staring, avoiding stepping on the cracks. Trying to pretend he’s not noticing that. That he’s avoiding the cracks. ‘Cause he might break his dead mother’s back.

Fuck.

“Sorry,” he spits out like it’s leaving a bad taste in his mouth. But it’s all leaving a bad taste in his mouth, “I’m sorry I lost my temper,” he clarifies.

“It’s okay,” he’s chewing his bottom lip a little, looking straight ahead, “Fiona says sometimes that happens. But you’re helping. You want to help. So I guess that makes us friends.”

Want to help. Want to help. He wants to help. He wants to fucking scream. He wants to smash his fists into a brick wall until they’re bloody and mutilated and look like split, rotten tomatoes. He wants to scream and pull out his hair. He wants to reach inside his own chest and rip his own heart out and watch it die on the pavement in front of him.

He wants anything. Anything but this. 

Mickey’s life has always been shit. He always knew it would be shit. And every time he climbed one pile of shit the only thing on the horizon was another pile of shit. He knew it. He knew it would always be that way. And he knew Ian’s life wouldn’t be that way. Until it was. But it was still okay because they were climbing the shit together. Until they got to the top of a mountain of shit and Ian shoved him off. You can’t fix me. I’m not broken.

I love you. And it wasn’t enough. 

And it wasn’t enough.

And it’ll never be enough. 

He stops at the front gate. Leaning against it as his body stops moving but his brain is still chugging ahead. A train on the tracks. Chug. Chug. Chug. If he could just stop that fucking train. There isn’t enough whiskey in the fucking world to stop that fucking train. He sees him sitting there. Sitting right there on those steps. He ran. He ran. He ran as fast as he could. And he saw him sitting there. He saw him. And he heard him. And he didn’t believe him. 

And he didn’t believe him as he walked back home. With his hands shoved in his pockets. Choking back tears and anger. Biting his tongue until it was bloody. And he got so fucking drunk that night. And the next night. And for three weeks that followed. Until Debbie with her innocent fucking face was standing in front of him, telling him. Telling him that Ian had tried to kill himself. And he signed himself up for some experimental treatment. And it was going to turn him into a bowl of mush. But what the fuck could Mickey do anyway? What the fuck could he do ever? Mickey was lying under a pile of shit. And it was starting to clog his nostrils. And his mouth. And his eyes. 

It was too late.

He should have fought. He should have fought. Like he always did. Always did when it came to Ian. Always fucking fighting. Fighting with himself and his dad and his demons. Fighting with old fuckin’ faggots who wanted to use Ian. Fighting with old fuckin’ faggots who did use Ian. Fighting with himself. To kiss. To touch. To feel. Fighting with himself not to. Not to kiss. Not to touch. Not to feel. Fighting with himself. Fighting with Ian. Always fucking fighting. And maybe he was just so fucking sick of fighting. And what could he fucking do anyway?

Ian was not his. Ian did not want him. How many fucking times did he tell him that? And how many fucking times Mickey didn’t listen. Because he had come out for him. He had come out in front of his father and his wife. And half the shitheads in their neighborhood that would have killed him for it. And it did kill him. It killed him. Right there. Right there as Ian stood in the doorway of the Alibi. Mickey watched the back of his head. Again. Again. Again. Always walking away from him. Always. And he couldn’t fucking stand it. So he yelled it. He yelled it. Even though he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to. He didn’t fucking want to. But Ian hadn’t heard him when he said ‘what you and I have makes me free’. And he fucking meant it. He was free to touch. To kiss. And to feel. He was free to feel. And he felt too fucking much. And it was too fucking late. The fire had been lit. It had scorched his skin. Melted his flesh. Licked his bones dry. Until he was nothing a pile of disintegrated life and the only thing that made him feel alive was Ian. And Ian only wanted him if he was free. 

Fuck freedom. It doesn’t taste very fucking sweet after all. It’s fucking bitter. And it burns. It burns even when all that’s left is a disintegrated pile of life. Ashes on the floor. 

He is ashes on the floor.

“Do you want to come in and play video games?”

“Not tonight firecrotch,” it comes out of his mouth. And he watches it float across the cool Autumn air. And he watches it snake into Ian’s ear. And flicker across his iris. Like a lone firefly in the darkest hour of the night. Then he blinks. And it’s gone.

A dopey fucking smile rising, “firecrotch. You’re funny Mickey.”

“I’m a laugh a fucking minute Ian. Now go inside and lock the door behind you.”

“Okay.”

He watches until he’s long gone inside the house. Until he’s standing at the front window. Pulling the curtain aside. Waving. 

And Mickey waves back.

And he pretends it doesn’t hurt.


	4. Fair For Who?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fair For Who

“Where did he get this?” she hisses at him from across the room, snagging the photo out of his sleeping hand. Looking at it and blinking, blinking hard before her angry eyes rise to meet Carl’s.

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it does,” she stalks over to stand right next to his bed.

“Why? They’re still friends. It doesn’t hurt to have pictures of your friends.”

“Because,” her voice shakes and she shoves the photo in her back pocket, “because it’s not fucking fair to have this reminder.”  
Fair for who? He wants to ask. He wants to know. What part of this is fair to anyone? 

It’s not fair to him. It’s not fair to him that he has to walk Ian through life like he’s a damn middle schooler. It’s not fair that he has to listen to him some nights crying. It’s not fair that he has to explain to him how to masturbate so that he doesn’t have wet dreams. It’s not fair that he has to help him pick out his clothes so that he doesn’t go to work in fucking shorts when it’s fifteen degrees out. It’s not fair that he has to walk his older brother to work on his way to school in the morning. And meet him there after school on Fridays. Instead of hanging out with his friends. Doing stupid shit that everybody is the Southside does. It isn’t fair. 

Or is it Fiona? It’s not fair to remind her that she agreed. That she was the one who said, ‘yeah Ian that sounds like a good plan’, because that stupid clinic gave him the pamphlets that claimed 99% success rates in trials. And Fiona believed it. She actually believed it! Or maybe she just looked at Ian and saw Monica, and all she thought was ‘good we can get rid of him for a few weeks’. Well, she accomplished getting rid of him alright. 

It’s not fair to Debbie. Who keeps seeing the good in him. Who believed that stupid shrink when he said it would take time, but his memory would rebuild itself. It would take time and a gentle hand. A lot of patience. But that stupid shrink was wrong. Being gentle and patient isn’t working. And Debbie doesn’t get that. So she sits on his bed with him every single night and tries to get him to remember. Anything. Any part of him that used to exist. 

What about Lip? Lip was supposed to protect him. And he fucking failed. Because he was too busy drinking himself stupid and fucking sorority girls instead. But now he’s too busy getting his life back together and getting a degree. So he doesn’t see this. Because it’s not fair to him to have to look at how he failed. Lip has never been good accepting failure as a part of life. Especially in the Southside.

Carl looks at it this way: life is failure. The only happiness are those moments between failings. The ones where you get your lazy ass back up and fucking try again because it’s the only option you have in life. And life sucks. But if you stay down when you fall, it’s your own fucking fault. And if you stay down it’s that much easier for the world to keep you down. Carl’s never been good at staying down.

Or is it Mickey? Mickey who is going to either drink himself to death or end up behind bars again. Or both. Mickey who still wears his heart on his sleeve when it comes to Ian. He didn’t have to help. Ian broke up with him. But when Ian finally broke himself, Mickey was right there. And has stayed right there, trying to pick up the pieces and hold them back together even as he’s teetering on the edge of sanity himself. 

Or is it actually Ian? Is this unfair to Ian? It’s not his fault he’s bipolar. It’s not his fault he let some sleazy psycho psychologist talk him into an experiment to fix his brain. It’s not his fault, he is merely a victim of circumstance. A victim of science. A victim of society. Is it really not fair for them to try? For him? 

He leaps off the bunk, yanking the photo out of his sister’s pocket on his way by, “life’s not fucking fair Fiona. But sitting back and watching our brother drown is worse than unfair.”

It’s cruel. And Carl may be a lot of things. But cruel is not one of them.


	5. Holding So Tight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holding So Tight

Mickey is drunk again. But not drunk enough. So he fills his flask and heads for the abandoned buildings. Where he gets to shoot shit. And throw shit. And punch walls until his fists are bloodied and his ears are ringing. And he’s still not drunk enough. So he shoots some more shit. Until he has no more bullets left. And he throws some more rocks. As hard and as far as he can. Until there are no more rocks left within reach. 

And he sits. He sits still until the sweat he worked up is drying on his skin. Until the cool air of Autumn is seeping through his tan sweater. Until he has to shake the sleeves down to cover his sore hands. And his flask is empty.

His stupid bitch wife asked him this morning if he wanted a fuck. A fuck. Like he’s ever wanted a fuck from her. With her. Whatever the fuck it is that she thinks they share. Or is trying to force him to share. She got that stupid strap-on out and told him she’d fuck him. She’d do it to relieve some tension. Like that was all he needed. Some bitch of a whore to fuck him with a dildo. Yeah, that would relieve the tension. His whole fucking life is tension. And she thinks a dildo will do it. 

Fuck.

He stumbles down the broken steps of the broken building empty for a broken man. And he starts across the open grassy corridor. The broken cement of the sidewalk. The overgrown grass. The cool dampness of an oncoming storm.

And he stops. He stops when he realizes he’s not alone back here. He stops. And his breath stops. And his heart stops. And his mind stops. For just a moment. Just a brief moment. Just one. Where he will allow himself to see the red-haired man standing in front of him. See him as a man. As the man that he should be. That he could have been. The man that kept Mickey’s heart in his teeth. Biting at it every time he thought he had given enough. He had given all he had to give. And all he got in return was a bite. But that bite was worth it. 

And then he blinks, “Ian.”

“Mickey,” but this time it’s not a question. He’s certain of who he is at least. That’s an improvement from the rest of this week.

“What are you doing back here?”

“I don’t know,” blinking quickly at him as he approaches. 

“Does your family know where you are?”

“I don’t know,” his voice doesn’t sound childlike. It just sounds confused. 

Mickey gets his phone out of his pocket. Hopes his fingers are sober enough to type the message into the group text that he found Ian and is bringing him home, but his eyes aren’t sober enough to make sure that’s what it says. So he sends it anyway.

“Where’s your jacket?” he wonders. 

Ian shrugs. Goosebumps risen on his long freckled arms. 

Mickey sighs, pulling his sweater off over his head, “put this on,” tossing it his way. Wouldn’t this be a shitty place for his memories to come back? Fuck, Mickey cringes when the sound of his foot connecting with Ian’s face comes crashing through the fog of alcohol. He lifts his flask to his mouth only to be reminded that it’s empty as he watches Ian pull the sweater over his head. It’s enough too big for Mickey that it almost fits Ian perfectly. 

“You’ll be cold now.”

He shakes the flask at him, “no I won’t,” smirking.

Ian doesn’t get it, “but it’s cold out. And now you only have a t-shirt on.”

“And a fuck ton of whiskey in my system. Let’s go,” his hand lands on Ian’s bony shoulder-blade, steering him to turn around.   
He turns but he seems to stumble over his feet a little. Mickey grips his arm to keep him balanced and isn’t sure how they don’t both fall down. The ground is already swirling at Mickey’s feet, balancing Ian’s weight seems like a miracle right now, “Mickey?”  
“Ian,” his hand stays in the crook of Ian’s elbow. He wonders if the kid has been eating enough lately. 

“Why were you back here?”

“I come back here to be alone sometimes,” he admits. The nice thing about this Ian is that Mickey can be completely honest and not be judged. About anything. This Ian won’t say ‘would you at least look at me’ or ‘I can’t stop thinking about it’. That’s great Ian, that’s great that you can’t stop thinking about it. Because I can’t stop reliving it. Reliving it. Over and over. And over. And every time more vivid than the last. It’s the breath in my lungs and burning in my chest. It’s the aching in my bones and pain in my head, the throbbing in my temple. And you can’t stop thinking about it? You?

“Alone?”

“Yeah,” he grunts. Forcing them both to keep walking. To walk out of here. To keep this place separate from them. This is Mickey’s place. This is not Ian’s place. This is not their place. 

“I’m alone,” he whispers it so quietly Mickey isn’t certain he’s heard him, “I’m always alone.”

Fuck. His grip tightens until his fingers are pressing into the flesh of Ian’s arm, “I’m right here.”

“But I’m alone.”

“No you aren’t,” he insists. Like he’s always insisted, “I’m right here.”

“Mickey,” he stops suddenly. Turning to face Mickey. His eyes are wild, vision darting back and forth between Mickey’s eyes. Back and forth. Left to right. Right to left. Never lingering for long. Not focusing. Not seeing, “I’m alone.”

“Fuck,” he reaches for him. Taking a tight hold on his shoulders, “I’m right here,” he insists again. Tugging him into a forceful embrace. Holding him so tightly. So tight so that he knows he’ll never let go. He’ll never let go. He was never able to let go. Once he started to hang on. He would always hang on. No matter what. And maybe he’s holding on too tight. Maybe he’s holding so tight that Ian can’t breathe. Maybe he’s always held too tight. So tight that it suffocates the life out of them. Out of both of them. Too tight but never tight enough for Ian to understand. I’m right here. I’m right here. I’ll always be right here. Understand. Understand. Understand. Please understand. I’m right here. Turning his face into Ian’s neck. Pressing so hard that his nose is squished against his pulse point. That his lips are flush with Ian’s skin. That he can smell the soap he uses. And he can taste the distinct flavor of Ian’s flesh. Pressing so tight. Holding so tight. That maybe this time. Maybe this will be the time he seeps into Ian’s pores. He leaks into Ian’s blood. He fills all the holes that have been left in his being. Pressing so tight. Holding so tight. That this is bound to be the time they never let go. They never let go because they are one person. They have removed the flesh and blood things that are one another. And they have become one singular being. They have filled the voids in each other’s souls left by life. Left by other people. Other things. Things outside of each other that they never had the control over. That they never chose. This time. This is the time. Mickey is certain of it. As certain of it as he is certain that Ian is still in there. He is still in this body that is crushed against this own. He is still in there. In Mickey’s body. In his soul. In his mind. And in his arms. 

And Mickey pretends it doesn’t fucking hurt.


	6. The Drowning Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Drowning Man

He is alone.  
A rowboat in an ocean.  
Waves crashing.  
Rolling.  
Washing him away.  
Taking his oars.  
He is alone.  
In an ocean.  
It is dark.  
He can feel the waves.  
Crashing.  
He is alone.  
He cannot swim.  
He is alone.  
He cannot see.  
He is alone.  
He cannot feel.  
The waves are rolling.  
Crashing.  
Taking him down.  
Latching to his ankles.  
Pulling him down.  
It is dark.  
He is alone.  
Waves crashing.  
Pounding.  
Violent.  
Painful.  
He is alone.  
And he is drowning.  
He is alone.  
And he cannot swim.  
In an ocean.  
Crashing.  
Rolling.  
Smashing.  
Pounding.  
He is alone.  
I'm right here.  
He is alone.  
I'm right here.  
He is alone.  
I'm right here.  
And there are arms.  
Wrapped around him.  
Wrapped so tight.  
He cannot breathe.  
He cannot breathe.  
So tight  
He cannot breathe.  
I'm right here.  
He is alone.  
I'm right here.  
He is alone.  
And he cannot breathe.  
He is alone.  
And it hurts.  
It hurts so much.


	7. The Ceiling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ceiling

He wakes with a pounding in his skull. His body sore. Aching. This isn’t new. 

He doesn’t know where he is. This isn’t new. HIs right hand rises to rub at his eyes. Thumb and forefinger grinding into his closed lids. Pushing and rolling his eyes around until all he sees is a spotted blanket. 

Feeling spreading. He’s on a floor. Lying on a floor. This isn’t new. 

A hand. A big warm hand. A big warm hand with long fingers. Wrapped tightly around his wrist. This isn’t new. But it’s been so long. It’s been so long. It must be some kind of trick. A trick his waking brain is playing. Some kind of trick of his hungover foggy brain. He doesn’t open his eyes. He doesn’t want to open them to see. To see it’s a trick. 

His breath hitches in his chest. Fingers in his eyes. Biting of tears against his closed lids. Burning aching tears. Pressing against his eyes. Pressing against his lids. Trying to keep them in. Trying to force them down. Trying to forget. This hand. Trying to forget this hand. 

“Fuck,” he hears himself whisper. He can’t lay here all day. He can’t just lay here all day with his eyes closed. With his eyes closed pretending he’s here. Pretending he’s here with Ian’s hand wrapped around his wrist.

He opens them. Blinking hard. Blinking until the spots he created disappear. But that hand hasn’t disappeared. That hand is still there. It is still there. 

He blinks at the ceiling until it becomes familiar. He blinks at it until it becomes foreign. It’s been so long. So long. He takes a deep breath. But it stops in his chest. He’s lying on the carpet. A blanket thrown over his legs. His jeans still on. His t-shirt still on. The ceiling. The smell. The feel. 

The wound in his chest is open. Raw. Breaking. 

Head turning. Gaze landing on the bed. The bed. With a long pale, freckled arm hanging off the side. It’s skinny. In a way it never was before. It’s fucking skinny. And it makes Mickey’s chest constrict. All the fucking times he’s slept on this floor. And all the fucking mornings he’s awoke looking at this ceiling. And all the moments spent listening to his breathing. And listening to his breathing.

Breathing. Something Mickey can’t do right now. It keeps getting caught. Getting caught right there in his chest. In the gapping wound in his chest. 

He stays still. He remains still. Still. He is still. 

He hears a shifting body. A body shifting on a different bed. Whoever still lives in this fucking house. Whoever still sleeps in this fucking room. Whoever is stuck here. Stuck in this room. Where the air is suffocating. Thick and heavy. Weighed down with all things lost. 

Do you love Mickey?

I like how he smells.

And it echoes. And he pretends it doesn’t hurt. He pretends it doesn’t hurt.


	8. A Cage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Cage

Carl rolls to his side. Peering over the edge of the bunk. 

His eyes are open. Focused on the ceiling. Blinking. Slowly.

Ian’s arm is hanging off the mattress. His fingers are wrapped around Mickey’s wrist. Ian is sound asleep. And Mickey is wide awake. 

Ian asked Mickey to stay. When he brought him home last night. Mickey said he’d wait. He’d wait until he was asleep. So that he didn’t feel so alone. Carl thought he’d leave but the choice was made for him by the whiskey. Carl could smell it rolling off him when he walked through the door. And his fucked up hands didn’t escape Carl’s attention either. They look horrible. Like maybe he fought a brick wall or something. But as his hands clench and unclench into fists, he doesn’t seem to notice the pain. Clenching every time his breath catches. Mickey is a wire pulled taut. Bound to snap. He always has been. There was a time, a short span of time, when Carl didn’t think Mickey always looked pinched and worried. It was that span of time that Ian was living at the Milkovich house. And Mickey was so certain that he could take care of him. Mickey was so focused on making sure Ian didn’t snap, that he found a way to unwind himself. Make that wire lax and pliable. Make himself wind around Ian like a cage. A cage that kept the world out, but never kept Ian in. Only kept him safe inside of it.

Carl didn’t mind Mickey’s presence. It never bothered him. He kind of idolized Mickey. 

And he didn’t mind it last night. Last night was the first night in weeks that Ian slept. He slept the entire night. Carl didn’t have to chase him down the stairs, hollering at him to stay in the house, to get back in bed. Carl didn’t have to listen to him crying. Or talking to himself. 

He wants to tell Mickey this. But he knows it won’t help. It will only make Mickey feel worse. Since he looks like a wire about to snap, Carl thinks Mickey can’t possibly feel worse than he already does.


	9. Shaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaking

Debbie stands by the doorway. Watching his hands. They’re shaking as he tries for the third time to tie his right shoe. She wants to just reach out and do it for him. But taking away independence is only going to make him worse.

“Ian,” she tries her best soothing tone, “I know you can do this. But we need to get going. We’re going to be late for school.”

“I’m going to school?” his face tilts away from his shoe, fingers dropping the knot, the laces falling open once again. 

The excitement in his eyes was quick to rise and Debbie feels awful for having to extinguish it, “no. You’re going to work. Carl and I are going to school. And we’ll be late if we don’t get going soon.”

“Oh work. At the Kash N Grab?”

“Yes Ian.”

“Why can’t I go to school?”

“Well because you’re old enough now that we need you to work, remember? When you turn eighteen you work, you don’t go to school anymore.”

“I’m eighteen?”

“No, you’re twenty. Ian may I tie your shoe for you? I know you can do it, but we need to go.”

“No,” his mouth buttons shut tight like an obstinate toddler as his focus drops back down to his task. His hands are shaking. It’s bothering Debbie. The shaking started again last week. It had been gone for a few months. She watches and bites her tongue when he drops the shoelace again. She looks over at Carl, who seems to be more focused on the toe of his boot than on anything else happening. 

“Fiona!” she screams it. Loud enough that Ian startles, his eyes wide when they rise again, “Fiona!” 

She worked a late shift last night. She’s still sleeping. But Debbie doesn’t give a shit right now. She’s going to school. She’s going to graduate. She’s not going to be another Gallagher with a GED. She’s going to be the second Gallagher to get her diploma. And she’ll walk. She’ll walk for it. And shake the principal’s hand when she receives it. 

“Fiona! Fiona! Fiona!”

“What the fuck Debbie?” Carl wonders behind her.

She just keeps screaming it until she can’t breathe anymore. And Ian is covering his ears. Cowering on the stairs. The shaking is gone beyond his hands now. His entire body is shaking. And she can’t stop screaming. She can feel Carl shaking her arm, shaking her shoulders. Telling her to calm the fuck down. And she knows she only has another breath or two before he throws her out the back door. But she can’t stop screaming. 

Disheveled and angry, blinking sleep out of her eyes. Her bare feet landing hard on the stair right behind Ian, “what the fuck Debs?”

“He’s shaking,” her voice comes out breathy and whisper soft. Panic is clouding her senses but she has to get to school on time, “he’s shaking Fiona. He’s overmedicated again. He’s shaking. And I’m not going to be late for school,” she turns quickly. Shoving past Carl and out the back door. Into the brisk Autumn morning. Feeling it against her overheated cheeks. Her throat raw as she breathes it in. Her throat coated with acid. Acid rising up her throat. Into the back of her mouth. Against her tongue. Coating her cheeks. As she leans forward and lets it go. Pieces of toast, bile, acid, and orange juice. Splattering the sidewalk at her feet. She doesn’t even walk around it. She walks right through it. She tracks it down the sidewalk. She takes it with her. Like she takes her own shaking hands with her. They’re still shaking when she stops at the Kash N Grab after school to check on her brother. To make sure she’s the only one still shaking. But she’s not. He’s not there. He shook his way right into a seizure. And how he’s being admitted for observation. And Debbie’s hands won’t stop shaking.


	10. Immediate Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Immediate Family

Mickey is not going to leave. He is not going to leave. Even though they told him. They told him he couldn’t go back there. That only family could go back there. But Mickey is not going to leave. He is family. And he is not going to fucking leave.

He stands at the desk. Arms crossed over his chest. Eyes steady. Unwavering from the woman at the desk. Staring as she makes phone calls. And shuffles papers. And squirms as the feel of his eyes don’t leave her. 

He stands there and stares. Until suddenly Carl is standing beside him. He’s telling the woman, “he is family.”

And the woman is rolling her eyes. And telling him, “only immediate family.”

“He is immediate family. As immediate as you can get.”

“And what exactly does that mean?”

Carl pauses. He takes a deep breath, and he admits it. He says the things they’ve all thought, the things maybe they all wanted, “because if you people hadn’t turned my brother into a bowl of overcooked oatmeal, this guy would be his husband by now. You don’t get more family than that.”

Mickey feels his hand come down on his shoulder. He feels it. Like a million pricks of a needle on his flesh. A million needles. And he pretends it doesn’t hurt.


	11. The Watcher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Watcher

She watched hours ago as Mickey stumbled into the room. As he took off his jacket and laid down beside Ian. Turning on his side. Gently placing one arm across Ian’s chest, his hand cupping Ian’s cheek. His face resting against his temple. She watched as he stroked Ian’s cheek. And took deep breaths against his skin. She watched as he fell asleep. And she wiped tears off her cheeks.

Now she watches as Ian’s hand rises from his side. His eyes open in the dim hospital room. He’s been mostly sedated for how many days now? Fiona isn’t sure. She doesn’t want to know. She knows she’s lost her job by now. She knows she doesn’t care anymore. She failed him already. So badly. She spent her life resenting her parents for leaving her to take care of her siblings. She spent her life resenting her siblings for needing to be taken care of. They were the chains that bound her. She loved them. But she resented them. They were never her choice. And when Lip was fucking up at college and Ian was fucking bipolar and Carl was in fucking juvie and Debbie was talking about sex and babies, Fiona turned her back. She needed some freedom. For the first time in her life.

And then Debbie called her. Panicked and barely audible when she told her that Ian slit his wrists. Ian was Monica. Fiona knew that already. But she didn’t think he’d go that far. That quickly. When she visited him in the hospital and he told her about the treatments, the new shock therapies and new drugs, she told him it was worth a shot if he thought it was worth a shot. 

They were wrong. She was wrong.

She bites back a sob as she watches him lift his hand. Holding it in front of his face. Eerily pale in the glow of the nightlight. He’s watching his hand. Trying to decipher the IV poked through the tender skin of the back of his hand. She should talk now. He should hear her voice now. A voice more familiar than his own mother’s. But she can’t find any words. Not anymore. Not this time. 

So she’s silent as his face turns. It turns towards Mickey. And his hand lowers. Landing and staying on Mickey’s hand. His eyes blink. He takes a deep breath against Mickey’s face. And his eyes close. They close slowly. Gently. He drifts back into sleep.

And Fiona cries.


	12. Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing

He reaches out  
To touch.  
Nothing.  
Nothing is there.  
He reaches out  
To feel.  
Nothing.  
Nothing is there.  
He opens his eyes  
To see.  
Nothing.  
Nothing is there.  
He opens his mouth  
To breathe.  
Nothing.  
Nothing is there.  
He turns his head  
To smell.  
Everything.  
Everything is there.  
And it hurts.  
It hurts so much.


	13. A Wet Rat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Wet Rat

Winter. Another fucking winter. Another fucking winter of nothing but grey. And white. And cold. And wind. Christmas. Another Christmas with no tree. No lights. No mistletoe. No presents. New Year. Another New Year with no parties. No champagne. No kisses. No promises. Valentine. Fuck Valentine. St. Patrick’s Day. Easter. 

And the snow starts to melt. And the ground starts to thaw. But Mickey is still frozen. Frozen to the ground in this shitty neighborhood. With his shitty wife. And his kid. His fucking kid. And everybody always saying ‘he has your eyes’ and ‘he’s so cute’ and ‘he looks just like you’. And Mickey doesn’t look. Because Mickey can’t stand to look. And Mickey understands. He understands his father. And how his father hated him. And why his father hated him. And he understands why his father hit him. Why he had to hit him. And Mickey clenches his fists until he has crescents dug into his palms. And he bites his lip until he tastes metal. And he drinks. And drinks. And drinks. But he never hits the kid. And he never looks at the kid. And when the kid calls him ‘dad’ he tastes acid in the back of his throat. And he doesn’t respond. He never responds. He can’t. 

And he walks Ian home on Tuesdays and Thursdays. At least in the winter he wears gloves. And Mickey can’t feel the sticky slimy sweat against his own clammy hand. But the ground is thawing and the gloves are in his pocket. And Mickey squirms when his hand slips into his at the corner. And he looks down at him with that stupid fucking dopey smile on his face and reminds him, “Mom says we need to hold hands to cross the street.”

And Mickey nods. And Mickey doesn’t scream. He doesn’t punch. He doesn’t howl. He drinks. And he drinks. And he drinks. Until his head is swimming. And his body is weak. And his tongue is numb. And his heart isn’t broken. It isn’t broken. His heart isn’t broken. 

“Do you want to come in and play video games?” he wonders at the gate.

“Not tonight.”

“Maybe tomorrow?”

“Maybe tomorrow.”

And he stands. At the gate. And waits. Until he’s inside. Until the door is locked. And he’s waving from the window. 

He waves back. Then he drinks. And he drinks. And drinks. 

Until he wakes up in the gutter. And he pretends it doesn’t hurt. And he pretends it doesn’t hurt when he looks at his phone. To see a stupid fucking group text. A text that says they can’t find Ian. He must have left in the nighttime. They’ve mobilized. The Gallagher way. The way they always did when they were looking for Frank.

But Mickey doesn’t. He walks slow. And his hands are shaking. And his stomach is twisting. And his mouth tastes like vomit. His clothes are wet and his head is pounding. And we walks slowly. And he doesn’t stop until he’s climbed over the fence. And he’s standing in the dugout. And he doesn’t know why. But he knows why. 

“Ian,” he leans against the fence next to him.

“Mickey.”

He slides a smoke out of his pack. Lights it. He looks at Ian out of the corner of his eye. He’s pale. And shivering. And Mickey doesn’t fucking care. He doesn’t care. Because this hurts too fucking much. And he can’t keep pretending. He can’t keep pretending it doesn’t. Because it fucking does. 

He’s silent. Completely silent as he smokes his cigarette. He’s silent as he smokes a second one. With trembling hands. And an aching body. A cloudy head. But a pain so clear that it cuts through his soul. With every single breath he takes. And he wonders. He wonders. Wonders if it would be better. If it would be better if he had succeeded. If he had done it. If he had ended it. If it would be better.

And he hates himself for wondering. And he hates Ian for not wondering. And he hates Carl for putting pressure on his bleeding wounds. And he hates Debbie for calling 911. And he hates the ER docs who kept him alive. And he hates himself for not being there. He hates himself. He hates himself. He will always hate himself. 

But then Ian speaks. And he’s looking at Mickey. He smiles. And it’s not that stupid dopey smile. It’s Ian’s smile when he says, “you look like a wet rat.”

His breath stops. It stops cutting through his soul with every expansion of his lungs, “what?”

“You look like a wet rat,” his hands are shoved in his pockets and he’s smiling. There are sparks floating across his pupils. There’s a twinkling in the green expanse of his irises.

This is some fucking trick. This is some fucking trick of his past life. This is a trick. And he can’t breathe. And he can’t respond. And Ian’s eyes are narrowing and his eyebrows are drooping and his smile is fading and he wonders, “did we ever go on a date Mickey?”

“What?”

“A date. Like a real date,” his eye contact falters. Dropping to his feet, “I don’t remember.”

And suddenly Mickey is desperate. He’s desperate to touch and feel. To see him. To hear him. To touch. To feel. To feel. Really feel. Feel something for once that isn’t pain. It isn’t pain. But his thoughts are too foggy. They’re coming at him too quickly. And he can’t get anything past his lips but another, “what?”

Eyes rising. Slowly now. Meeting Mickey’s and staying there. A million sparks on his pupils. A million fireflies blinking in the dead of the night. Then his lids close. They open again. And they’re gone.

And Mickey pretends it doesn’t hurt.


	14. Photographs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Photographs

“Do you know who this is Ian?” she pulled out all the stops. When he came home yesterday, when Mickey found him at the ball field. When he came home and looked at the photo of him and Mickey and he smiled. He smiled at the photo and Debbie felt like she could see a light at the end of the tunnel. He didn’t ask who it was, or where they were, or why Mickey was looking at him like that. He just smiled. So Debbie paid Svetlana to break into Mickey’s phone and send her all the pictures he had. And she begged Mandy for all the pictures she had. And she found all of Ian’s old pictures on his old phone. 

And she got prints of every single one of them. And now they’re sitting on his bed surrounded by photos of Ian’s life with Mickey. And she dug out all the photos of their childhood. There weren’t that many, but there were some. 

“Yeah,” he smiles, “yeah I know who that is. That’s Mickey’s son. Of course I know who that is Debs. That’s my son.”

Her chin trembles, she blinks hard and looks across the room to Carl. Carl is grinning. 

“Where are they?” his eyes rise from the photo to her face.

“They’re at home Ian.”

His brow furls, “I need to go home then.”

“Not tonight.”

“Why not? Did I do something? Is Mickey mad at me?”

“No. Not at all. Never,” she reaches out, putting her hand overtop of his, giving it a tight squeeze, “never. You’re just staying here for a couple of days, okay?”

“Why?”

“Well, um,” she draws a momentary blank, before lying, “Carl and I need you here for a little while, okay?”

“Oh. Is Fiona out of town?”

“Yes. She is. And she doesn’t trust us not to throw parties.”

“Oh,” he laughs. It’s his laugh, “of course.”

By the time she goes down the hall for her own room her cheeks hurt from smiling so hard. He’s not all the way back. But he’s getting closer.


	15. It Doesn't Hurt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It Doesn't Hurt

“Jesus Mick, you smell like a distillery,” he waves his hand in the air between them. Turning back to lock the door. Check it. And walk away.

Mickey stumbles beside him. Not realizing right away that he’s heading in the wrong direction. Not realizing that because he’s only realizing how much like Ian he looks. And sounds. Fuck he must have had a lot of fucking whiskey. He keeps stumbling behind him. Half listening as he talks about some new granola bars that Linda wants to start carrying. She thinks they’re a little pricey for this neighborhood but with the hipsters moving in, they’re likely to sell. 

And he doesn’t reach for Mickey’s hand at the corner. But Mickey finds himself reaching for Ian’s. He startles when they make contact. Looking down at Mickey with surprise in his pretty eyes, “we do this now? Here? Out in the open?”

“What?”

He raises their linked hands in the air between them, “this is okay now?”

“What?”

“What’d you drink for lunch Mick?” he laughs, keeping a loose, relaxed grip on his hand as they cross the street.

The wrong street, “where we goin’?”

“Home,” he shrugs with a half-laugh, “what’d you drink for dinner?”

“What?” coming to an unsteady halt on the far side of the street. Clenching down on Ian’s hand to put his brakes on. 

He stops. Turning to face Mickey. In his eyes. It’s in his eyes. His eyes. There’s life. Dancing across his irises. His beautiful irises that have always held the map of Mickey’s life. A smile, gentle, “we need to get you some food. And water,” reaching out to touch his cheek tenderly, “and a shower. Let’s go home.”

“But,” he stutters, “but Ian, but I…”

“Oh that’s right,” he laughs, “I’m staying at Fiona’s right now. Debbie and Carl need me there for a few nights. That’s right,” rolling his eyes at himself and turning back to cross the street again. He doesn’t drop Mick’s hand. But that’s okay. His grip is loose. His hand isn’t sticky. Or slimy. Or sweaty. It’s warm and it’s soft. And it’s comfortable. And Mickey can feel it. He can feel every single part of flesh on flesh. And it doesn’t burn. It doesn’t hurt. 

He stops at the gate. He wasn’t noticing what Ian was talking about for the rest of the walk. He only noticed that he was talking. And it was light. And easy. And beautiful. And Mickey felt like he was swimming in Ian’s words. Instead of whiskey. Swimming in Ian’s voice. In the feel of Ian’s hand in his. In the lightness in his step. And the weight felt like it was lifting off his chest. And the fog felt like it was clearing. The snow was melting. The ice was falling. The wound was healing. 

Ian stops walking when he realizes Mickey has. Turning, looking down at him with an easy smile, “you coming?”

“I…”

“Just for dinner. I know you have to get back to Yev before bed. But you need to eat.”

“Ian, I…”

He steps in suddenly. Taking Mickey’s face in his hands, tilting his head back. His eyes scan over his face. A smile rises. It stays. Fuck, he’s so close. He’s so close. So close. And Mickey can smell him. And feel him. And he could…

“You need to eat,” he repeats, “come on,” backing away. 

Mickey doesn’t move. He watches as Ian takes the stairs. Easy strides. Confidence back in his motions. Coordination that of a grown man’s. Presence. His presence is back. His presence that always made Mickey do all the things he didn’t want to do. Like follow him up those fucking stairs. And sit through dinner. With him. With him. Him. Eating and talking. And talking. And sounding like Ian. And looking like Ian. And Debbie keeps smiling. Every time she looks at him. And every time she looks at Mick. And every time she looks at Carl. 

And finally Mickey smiles back. And it feels like thick dark clouds finally parting. It feels like a single ray of sunshine breaking through. And it doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t hurt. And he doesn’t have to pretend. Because it doesn’t hurt.


	16. The Floating Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Floating Man

He takes a deep breath of the Summer night’s air. Leaning his head back against Mick’s shoulder as his hand clamps tight at his chest. Letting himself relax completely against the steady, calm beating of his man’s heart. Looking out across the ball field. Remembering the first time they were back here. Mickey fresh out of juvie. Ian fresh with dreams. Shotgunning bears, doing pull-ups, and fucking. Not admitting it was more than just fucking. The second time they were back here. He punched Mickey in the face for simply trying to take care of him. But then they fucked anyway. And it was so much more than just fucking. And they both admitted it.

He turns his head, tilting his face up to watch his boyfriend. The boy he never stopped loving. Even through the thick fog of the two years he spent lost and broken. Brain like a bowl of pea soup. 

The memories came back slow. For that he is grateful. If everything came crashing into him at once, he would have lost his mind. What a stupid fucking decision. What a horrible way to try to fix something that was never broken. Ian. He was never broken. 

He smiles when Mickey tilts his face down to look at him. That passion, lust, love, and tenderness in his eyes. That look. The look. The look that Mickey always wore for Ian. Always. Always will. 

“Can we talk about it?” he wonders, not breaking eye contact.

“Hmm?” sliding a hand though Ian’s hair.

They’ve spent the last year and handful of months sifting through the memories. The pain. The joy. The wholeness of being. But the one thing they’ve avoided, they’ve not brushed the surface of, “when I broke up with you.”

Chewing on his lower lip for a long moment. He quit drinking. Completely, hasn’t touched alcohol in months. He looks so gorgeous now. His eyes twinkle when he looks at Ian. He smiles. Now he smiles so much more than he used to. 

Finally he wonders, “do we have to?”

“Yes,” Ian nods, waiting. Giving his hand a short squeeze against his chest, “I’m sorry.”

He waits. Watching Ian intently for a long moment. Thinking it over, wondering if he can truly forgive him. If he can truly forgive him for trying to take himself away from him. It’s not just the break up, it was the suicide attempt. And the botched treatments. It was two years of horrendous pain that Mick endured just to be near him. To make sure he was safe. Ian knows it hurt like hell. It hurt inside his own body and he was foggy and mushy. Mickey was crisp, clear, wide awake while he watched Ian slipping away. And he did everything in his power to keep a hold on his fingertips. Holding to make certain he didn’t completely disappear. More than that. Longer than that. Mickey was always holding on so tightly. He grabbed on when Ian was diagnosed and he never let up. His grip was firm and strong. Until Ian finally pushed him away for the last time. Even then, his grip didn’t release. It eased up, but it was still there. 

Reaching out, touching Mickey’s face. Tracing a finger across his jaw. Over his lips. Ian’s meds are balanced. For the most part. There are still some days that he wants to tear off his skin and run bare and wild through the Chicago streets. And there are still days that he wants to curl inside himself, hide under a blanket and never get up again. But those are the days he reaches for Mickey. For that man next to him. The man he can lean on, rely on. And love. Wholeheartedly. Sure, he feels guilty some days for needing him more than Mickey needs Ian. 

A smile rises under Ian’s finger. Maybe not. Maybe that’s not true. Maybe Mickey needs Ian in order to smile. In order to breathe easy. In order to keep his anger in check. Ian notices the small things lately. Like the way he’s been trying harder to get along with Svetlana. They divorced officially. But they decided with Terry still in prison, it made sense to just keep living in the same house. No one else was there anyway. The four of them. Svetlana, Yevgeny. Mickey and Ian.  
It hasn’t slipped his attention either that he’s been looking at Yevgeny. He’s been looking at him. Sometimes with pride. Sometimes with a hint of resentment. But it’s a start. 

He’s starting to think that no, Mickey isn’t ready to accept his apology. And that’s okay. Maybe it’ll take more time. More proof that he’s in it for the long haul. He’s completely, madly in love with Mickey. With this Mickey. The one he’s always known. The one that was always right there. Right here. Right here making certain that Ian didn’t drown. That Ian wasn’t alone. Because Mickey was right here. He is right here. And neither one of them are going anywhere. 

“I’m sorry too firecrotch,” he whispers finally before leaning in, pressing a long soothing, loving kiss against Ian’s lips. Kissing for so long that he is floating. He is floating high above them in an instant, but not so high that he’ll never come back. Floating with an anchor. A sturdy, reliable, strong anchor to the ground. Not just an anchor that he needs. An anchor that he wants. In this sea. This sea that is calm and tumultuous. Beautiful and terrifying. Soothing and exciting. This sea that Ian is floating in. Forever and for always tied to this man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I'm still working on Meanest Hunk of Woman - this was just a quick break! Since apparently I'm going to survive the winter by writing Gallavich fics!
> 
> Leave me kudos friends. It's my paycheck for taking the time to post :)

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos, comments appreciated :)


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